


Scribble

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Beads, Asexual Character, Experimentation, M/M, Object Insertion, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well, you’ve learned your lesson now, haven’t you. You’ve got the same parts as the rest of us puny mortals."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scribble

  
** Scribble  
by Berlynn Wohl **

 

A/N: This fic is based on _It’s Not The Sort Of Thing We Test That Often_ , an anonymously-written [kinkmeme fill](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2589398#t2589398) from 2010. If you haven’t read that fic yet, go read it first. It’s better than this one. Anyway, in that fic, the writer describes, in a single sentence, a brief mental image John has of Sherlock performing a variation of what actually occurs in the story. So I took that sentence and wrote 2,500 words about that mental image happening instead. (Also, this fic features ace!Sherlock.)

 

Because the original author was anonymous, I was not able to ask their permission to write a spin-off. But if you come forward as the author and ask me to take this fic down, I will do so.  :)

 

 

 

John added “bread” to the shopping list; there was only enough left for tomorrow’s toast. His hopes of getting away with waiting two more days to do the shopping were dashed.

But since he was going, he tried to add to the list. He was bad about remembering non-food items, so he looked through drawers and in cabinets to jog his memory. Laundry soap, cling film, light bulbs? 

What about toothpaste? John couldn’t get into the loo at the moment; Sherlock had shut himself in there thirty minutes ago, declaring that he needed to conduct an experiment, and he’d been monopolizing the room since then. Bit annoying, doing that without asking John if he’d like to use it first. But on the bright side, the rest of the flat was, for the time being, quiet and calm. He liked when Sherlock was in the flat with him, but not causing a ruckus. It felt…domestic.

Well, in any event, it couldn’t hurt to buy a new tube of toothpaste. Not like the stuff went bad. He added it to the list, then put the list in his pocket. He’d go out once Sherlock was done with his experiment. No sense wasting this peace and quiet while he had it. He had a book upstairs; perhaps he’d fetch it and read on the couch, then have a nap.

Just as he stepped out onto the landing, he heard Sherlock calling his name from the bathroom, uncharacteristically shrill and panicked. It was just one shout, and no sounds of struggle from within. John sighed. _Did you drop your mobile in the toilet and you want me to get it, Princess?_ There was no lock on the bathroom door, so he walked right in.

John expected to find something resembling a condemned chemical plant or a demilitarized zone going on in and around the bath. Instead, what he found was Sherlock completely naked, on his knees in the tub, flushed and whimpering. Perspiration glistened on his forehead and chest. His thighs were quivering, and he gripped the sides of the tub for support. Within arm’s reach, on the lowered lid of the toilet, were his neatly-folded clothes, a notebook, a pencil, an opened clamshell package, and a bottle of…was that lubricant? John saw no other unusual objects in the room, and so based on Sherlock’s position and cry for help…

“Oh no,” John said. “You _didn’t_ \--”

“Not quite,” Sherlock said. Each word was a grunt. “Nothing’s lost in there. I just need help getting them out.”

“ _Them_? What were you even doing?”

Sherlock forgot his discomfort long enough to heave a supercilious sigh, as though John were the twelfth person he’d had to explain the situation to. “I needed to measure the maximum mass and volume a human rectum can…comfortably h-hold.” The longer he spoke, the more his distressing predicament got the better of him. “It was…research…for a case _god ah_ \--”

John crouched beside the tub and put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to steady him. “Does it hurt? Did you injure yourself?”

“I don’t know. Something inside me is… _nngh_ …” Sherlock pressed his palm to his abdomen, then seized again.

“Don’t do that. Don’t move. Put your hand back here.” John guided Sherlock’s back to the rim of the tub. Sherlock bit the corner of his lip and breathed raggedly through his nose.

“Tell me exactly what you did.”

“I was putting the beads…”

“What do you mean, beads?”

Sherlock nodded toward the plastic clamshell package on the toilet lid. It had apparently recently contained a set of five solid metal beads on a cord, each one, according to the illustration, larger than the last. There was a sturdy circular handle at the end.

Assuming that what Sherlock had put into himself was precisely what was illustrated on the package, John was somewhat relieved. The product appeared to be durable and high-quality. No cheaply-made strings of plastic beads with rough seams to abrade delicate insides.

Sherlock was still groaning in what John assumed was agony. John leaned back to catch a glimpse of the handle, which protruded from between Sherlock’s buttocks.

“I can’t-- the slightest _move_ , John. When I wiggle my _toes_ I can feel it.” Sherlock was whispering, as if he was afraid that what was inside him would hear.

“Can you describe it? Is it a stabbing? Cramping?”

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips. “It’s not like anything I’ve felt before,” he said. His knee rolled just slightly inwards -- his patella likely demanding relief from the press of the porcelain -- and he let loose a noise that didn’t sound so much like pain to John.

Suspecting that this situation was not so dire as he’d originally assumed, John drew out his line of questioning.

“So tell me what you did with the beads.”

“I’ve been on my knees just like this the entire time. I took the -- you saw the picture on the package? I lubricated the smallest bead and inserted it. I made a note. Then I reached back -- and did the same with the second one.”

“No pain at that point?”

“None. It felt very strange, but not painful. When I put the third one in, I suddenly had this feeling deep inside me. It was like…It made me…My legs went all wobbly.”

“But you didn’t stop there. You put two more in.”

“John, I can’t explain it. I did put the next one in…because I _wanted_ to. I just felt _compelled_ to get another one in. And then that feeling became ten times more intense. When I leaned over to make a note, it was like fireworks going off inside me. I could hardly hold the pencil.”

John’s eyes flicked to the notepad, upon which was written a list of numbers and formulas in an increasingly shaky hand. The final two lines were mere scribbles.

“And then I got _this_ ,” Sherlock said, inclining his head slightly to indicate his erect penis. “Though that doesn’t concern me. Probably the adrenaline. Perfectly natural response to a panic situation.”

It amused John that Sherlock felt the need to reassure him that his erection was not a cause for concern. “Indeed,” he deadpanned. “And the last bead?”

“I didn’t want to put it in. I felt so full. But I had to complete the experiment. You’ve got to help me, John. I’m afraid of what will happen when I take them out.”

John fought the urge to suppress a smirk. “Alright. First I need you to tilt forward. Put your hands here.”

Sherlock obeyed; another undignified whimper escaped his lips as he leaned. John guided him with a hand between his shoulder blades, and watched as the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse parted slightly, revealing the place where the toy disappeared inside him.

“I need you to relax as much as possible. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, alright?”

With one hand, John stroked Sherlock’s back to soothe him. There was a chance it might have been more for himself than Sherlock; he pressed the pads of his fingers just a little more firmly, admiringly, against Sherlock’s shoulder-blades as they slid over that smooth, pale skin. John hooked the first two fingers of his other hand in the loop of the handle and pulled, gently but firmly. He glimpsed the silver of the bead -- and just the glimpse told him that it was a big one -- but Sherlock was too tense, squeezing himself too tightly; it wouldn’t come.

“Bear down,” John commanded. He snuck a look at Sherlock’s cock, which jumped and twitched madly with each tug on the handle. After much effort, the bead popped free; Sherlock howled as the widest part stretched him open. After examining Sherlock and the bead, John said, “There’s no indication so far that you’ve been injured. Let’s take a breather, then we’ll do the rest.”

While he waited for Sherlock to collect his bearings, he got another eyeful of that magnificent erection. It wasn’t notable so much for its size, except perhaps to say that it was perfectly in proportion to his physique -- long and slender. Its colour was the perfect dusky rose, not too pink, not too brown. The foreskin revealed just the right enticing amount of glistening glans, and the subtle upward curve made it appear even more powerfully long and firm. For a moment, John forgot himself, and thought, _Jesus, look at that magnificent beast he’s got. Pity the bloody Pope’s sees more action than his does. Such a waste._

John cleared his throat and said, “Let’s try something different this time. When I pull, I want you to touch yourself.”

“What good will that do?”

“Sherlock, are you really that ignorant?”

John had a realization just then, a hot stab of anger and embarrassment in his guts. He dropped the handle of the toy like it had burned him. “ _Wait a minute_. The beads aren’t the experiment at all, are they? _I’m_ the experiment. This is a test to see how far I’ll go, what I’ll do for you and what I’ll believe when you tell me.” John stood up and stared down at Sherlock with contempt. “Forget it. Not playing this game anymore. Hope you had fun.” He made for the door.

“John! Oh god, John, no! Come back!”

Typically, when Sherlock had been caught out at something like this, some cruel experiment to entertain himself, he owned up immediately, shrugging off John’s disapproval (or suffering) and moving on to the next activity. But this time, when John turned and looked back, Sherlock remained hunched over himself, arms quivering, breath coming in short wheezes.

John returned to Sherlock’s side with due ambivalence. “Look at me,” he said. Sherlock tried to face John, his eyes dry but red, nostrils flaring, lower lip wobbling.

“You really don’t understand what’s going on? What do you think the beads are _for_? You bought them in a _sex shop_.”

Now Sherlock looked insulted. “How was I to know that this would happen to me? Those feelings are for other people. I don’t suffer from those same weaknesses. I should be able to perform this experiment with no sexual complications.” He said the word “sexual” the way he usually said the word “idiot.”

“Well, you’ve learned your lesson now, haven’t you. You’ve got the same parts as the rest of us puny mortals. Now, are you going to whinge all night, or are you going to do what I tell you?”

Sherlock’s gaze moved hesitantly toward his erection. He took one hand off the edge of the tub and gripped his shaft, then paused, as if he didn’t know what to do next.

“Don’t tell me you don’t even masturbate,” John said.

“I _have_ done,” Sherlock replied, defensively.

“I’ll do it for you, if it repulses you so much. I’ve got a free hand.”

“I can do it,” Sherlock snapped, and began to stroke himself tentatively. John shuffled over slightly to return to his task. As he gripped the handle of the toy again, he said, conversationally, “Does it feel good to you? To touch yourself?”

“Feels fine.”

When John pulled on the next bead, it must have caused the lot to shift inside Sherlock, because he made a strangled noise and curled in on himself. Before he regained his composure John noticed that, for a moment, he’d started to tug on his cock with more enthusiasm. But that lasted only a few strokes; he quickly straightened his spine and resumed his “reluctant” pace.

“I know it’s not your thing, but try harder,” John instructed. “The more relaxed you are, the easier they’ll come out. Here’s the next one.” John gave a merciless tug as the second bead finally breached; Sherlock’s rim clung to it as it came free, and closed tight after.

“Oh, John, that one felt…” Sherlock no longer needed encouragement; his strokes were long and luxurious and getting faster. “Do the next one, _now_.”

The third bead required much less effort than its predecessors. Sherlock’s body easily allowed its exit. All the while, John couldn’t help but chant, in his mind, _Yes, stroke that beautiful cock. Stroke it, touch it_ … The last bead, the smallest, was helped out simply by the weight of its heavier brethren. As the string of beads landed with a clatter on the porcelain, Sherlock gave a great shout and ejaculated against the wall of the tub. He rocked back and forth as he milked himself for what seemed like ages; come just kept on seeping out of the slit, and though he loosened his grip to allow for the new sensitivity, his strokes were no less generous.

“John,” he whispered. “John, John, _ooh_.”

Seemingly unable to support his own weight, Sherlock lowered himself into the tub, one hand still gripping the edge, his spine following the slope of the porcelain, his knees drawn up. He seemed not to care that he’d pressed himself against the streaks of his semen.

John’s heartbeat thudded in his ears. He was suddenly aware that his armpits and the small of his back were damp with sweat, and his shirt was sticking to him.

“John,” Sherlock said finally. “Can you turn the shower on? I feel filthy.”

John got shakily to his feet. His knees felt like water. But compared to Sherlock, he was a pillar. “I’m not going to leave you lying there like that. Come on, up you get.” He leaned down and took Sherlock’s wrists. “I’ll help you. Put your arms around my neck.” The damp smear of semen on Sherlock’s skin pressed into the fabric of John’s shirt as Sherlock clung to him.

John tilted the showerhead toward the wall so that Sherlock wouldn’t be sprayed by the initial cold blast. He tested the temperature with his hand for a while, then picked up the string of beads from where it lay in the tub. He nudged Sherlock under the water and said, “I’ll wash these in the basin for you.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll be throwing them away.” Sherlock’s suddenly impassive tone was even more disconcerting to John than that terrified shriek had been ten minutes ago.

“You won’t keep them?”

“What for? Sentiment? ” Sherlock pulled the shower curtain shut, and John heard the click of the metal dish against the tile as Sherlock took up the soap. “I can’t hold onto every piece of rubbish from every experiment I’ve ever conducted.”

“Right, just people’s mobiles. Very well, I’m binning them.”

“And can you take my notebook out with you when you go? I don’t want it to get damp with shower steam.”

John hefted the string of beads, thinking about how Sherlock had just been holding all of them inside himself. He briefly considered washing the beads and stashing them somewhere, yes, for sentimental reasons, a memento of the time that he had witnessed Sherlock as vulnerable and sexually aroused as he’d ever been. But no, Sherlock would surely find them, and humiliate John about the whole thing.

But when he picked up the notebook, he smiled. Sherlock _would_ be hanging on to that, and whenever he was being particularly peevish or haughty, John supposed he could always sneak a look at it, with its page of erratic scribbling.

 


End file.
